


To be found.

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, London, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Film, like the big time oops, post-war Britain is broken, talking about emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: A room filled with strangers drinking with other strangers, talking and laughing and spilling their secrets, lamenting their troubles. But names are seldom used and those that are are always fakes; it's an escape, from identity and responsibility, from the very prospect of life itself.(Collins and Farrier, post war, trying to find hope)





	To be found.

**Author's Note:**

> So, it has been far, far too long. I've missed writing about these two so much. I saw a play recently and just had to write about these two inspired by it. I hope you enjoy the angsty mess that this is, and kudos and comments are much appreciated!
> 
> (Any grammar errors are mine, please point any out that I have missed! And see end notes for stuff about Deliverance AKA me apologising for being shite)

The anonymity of the place is what gives it its charm, the faces of the patrons obscured by darkness and cigarette smoke. A room filled with strangers drinking with other strangers, talking and laughing and spilling their secrets, lamenting their troubles. But names are seldom used and those that are are always fakes; it's an escape, from identity and responsibility, from the very prospect of life itself. It's the kind of place you shouldn't show your face in if your name is worth anything.

Collins' name means a lot to the ones that know it, putting the mighty title of hero upon his head, weighing down his aching shoulders with their praise and adoration, entire body twitching and searching for an escape, to shed the weight for just a little while. He's what they like to call the Gold Standard, having served through the Battle and beyond, getting shot at flying home over the Channel and near crashing into the runway. The great burn ruining the side of his neck and chest is akin to a trophy, they say. His scars and discharge as honourable as the medals they'd pinned to him. A constant reminder to all of what he did, the sacrifices he made.

Farrier says they're a bunch of lying bastards, and sweeps him off his weary feet and out of the RAF as soon as he returns to England, having regained his strength over on the continent.

It's by Farrier's doing that they're in the place, his knowing of the owner allowing them some breathing space, a place in which eyes are often blind either by choice or alcohol. No one sees Farrier's hand where it's rested on Collins' thigh, or the bruises that litter both of their throats; if they do they keep their mouths shut. Looking about the place Collins decides it's likely because many of them hold the same secret.

The owner of the place had declared it to them as a place for lost souls, her movements extravagant and loose from drink, before she too had melted into the crowd of the lost looking for an escape just for one night.

He wondered what their stories were, the owner too. There'd been something sad in her eyes when she'd greeted them through the forced joy. Perhaps she was just as lost as the rest of them.

Just as damned.

Farrier's eyes are on him, he can feel it, so he lifts his head to find a concerned expression looking back at him. They've spent enough time in the dark together for Collins to be able to read his face through it, but he still lifts a hand, brushing a finger over the deep frown in the brunette's forehead. It's only for the contact, the need to touch and the sudden freedom to do so is driving him quite mad. A kiss, he imagines, would be too much, so as he lowers his hand he brushes it down over Farrier's lips, pausing there for a moment before dropping it into his lap.

"What is it?" Farrier asks, leaning in to speak into his ear, voice low and steady. Collins can't repress the shiver that runs down his spine when Farrier's hand begins running up and down his forearm and clenches his fist for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Are we as lost as them?" He asks, not sure if he'd meant to. Farrier tilts his head, as if in deep thought, before shaking his head, stubbled cheek brushing Collins'. He's expecting an answer, only a short one, Farrier is a man of few words and even fewer that hold any meaning.

Perhaps for Farrier to look about the room, scan the faces of the other patrons, watch the way they sway into each other with loose joints and looser words, climbing the stairs after each other with laughs muffled by murky glass bottles.

Perhaps for Farrier to give him some hope, some shining ray of optimism in the abysmal corner of the world they've hidden themselves away in. To say they're just visitors here, pretenders, hiding behind the troubles and ghosts of the lost until they can show themselves.

Collins hopes the wait won't be long.

Farrier does none of this, expression turning through several different emotions so swiftly Collins can barely keep up, identifying one before jolting onto the next. The hand that had been running along his forearm stops at his wrist, scarred fingers curling about the sensitive skin; Collins watches the action with a degree of fascination.

The sound of smashing glass fills the room, one of the patrons has stumbled over a table, his drunken form splayed out across it, ragged suit quickly stained with wine and whiskey, being dragged off by two of his equally drunken friends. The owner is there, shouting at someone to clean up the mess and making no effort to do so herself, more interested in socialising with her troubled patrons, whiskey dangling from her elegant fingers and complaining of the drink now staining the end of her bright red dress.

It's new, she claims, but it's a lie they've all heard before. She'd worn it every night they'd visited.

Collins felt somewhat horrified by that, that no one else appeared to pick up on the lie. He deems it a mark of the lost and refocuses himself on the man pressed warm and strong beside him.

The look he receives from Farrier is an odd one, brow drawn and mouth pressed into a curious hard line, his eyes staring off into the middle distance and face angled away from him. On impulse, he presses a light kiss to the side of Farrier's jaw, delighting in the jolt he gives as he comes back to himself, eyeing Collins in a manner similar to suspicion. But there's still something there, something he can't quite put his finger on. Before he can think on that too much however, Farrier is grabbing on his hand and pulling, wincing slightly as he moves up to stand, Collins' eyes going soft with concern and Farrier waving him off.

"Done here." Is all he says, pulling on his coat from where it hangs on the back of his chair, prompting Collins to do the same.

"Oi," Collins exclaims, getting Farrier's immediate attention. He grabs the cane from where it's leant against Farrier's vacated chair, the brunette sighing. Collins tuts, rolling his eyes as he pushes it into Farrier's reluctant hands and pulls on his coat. Farrier is ready to leave, focused on nothing else as a matter of fact, so when Collins notices the owner coming, he grabs at the man and pulls him back to face him, being met with a mixture of confusion and frustration. "Wait." He says, eyes signalling to behind Farrier where the woman is stood, making light conversation with a table of regulars. They wait just over a minute, before a commotion behind the bar draws her attention and Collins nods, grabbing onto Farrier's arm and allowing himself to be dragged out into the cold of the night.

Outside they're exposed, so Collins pulls back, the pair settling into a synchronised walk beside each other but ensuring to keep their distance, keeping the talk to a minimum until they're back out on the lighter, more populated streets.

It's Farrier's neck of the woods, so Collins follows him about somewhat blindly, the only noise between them the metal clang of Farrier's cane on the cobblestones. Somewhere far off and distant he hears laughter, music playing softly in the backdrop; Collins blocks it out and looks up at the stars and how Farrier's face looks under the streetlight.

They reach the river after ten minutes and Collins takes a risk, linking their arms. Farrier looks around them, concerned, then clearly makes an excuse for it in his mind if the way he relaxes into the touch is anything to go by. Collins pretends not to notice how his limp becomes exaggerated. No one pays them any mind, all they seem to be are veterans on a night out, to be treated with respect for their sacrifices.

A grunt from Farrier signals that they've reached their destination. In a different place, Collins might tease or roll his eyes, calling Farrier a caveman, asking him to use his words. Instead, he disentangles their arms and leans himself against the cold stone wall that stands beside the river, looking down into the inky water.

"We're not lost." Farrier says suddenly, breaking the silence, not looking at Collins where he's leant against the wall, head supported by his arms and elbows digging in painfully to the uneven stone. Instead he looks out over the water and Collins wonders whether he's remembering his time in France after the war had ended, recovering in one of the Red Cross places and waiting by the coast for a boat home. Farrier had thought of him then, he knows. Had said that he could see it some days, Blighty, that he felt he could reach out and touch it. How much he'd wanted to come home to him at last.

"Those people, if they are the lost then what are we? How different are we to them?" He asks, voice deliberately kept low. It's haunting to think about, that club filled with souls so lost and damaged that the night is the only time they come alive. And even then they wither, drowning themselves in alcohol and the bodies of others in order to escape from all they've lost; the stark pain of reality scattering them into the darker places.

The refuges for the weak and morally challenged.

"When I'm with you, I'm found," Farrier states, as though what he's said has no meaning, as though it's just a casual sentence, an everyday phrase. Their eyes meet, and Farrier sighs to himself, turning to look at the blonde's face, seeing the mild distress in his eyes. Something like tenderness colours his expression, softening the usual frown he wears in public and Collins feels himself relax a little. "Being in those camps, being alone, waiting for a way home to you. That was being lost," he explains, speaking slowly but not at all patronising. "Then, I found you again and that, Collins, that was being found." Collins nods, wishing with all his heart that he could just kiss Farrier, tell him everything that he can't, say all the words that are bunched up inside his throat.

Instead, he turns his head up to look at the sky, and shifts to the side so their shoulders brush lightly.

"So that's what they need then? Something like this?" He doesn't know why he asks. Maybe it's from concern, the instinctual care for others that seems to permeate his actions and thoughts. Equally, however, it is disappointment. Disappointment that this is the world left to them after the war. Disappointment that nothing is being done to help, that the pit is growing larger by day and more people and more people are dragged into its depths. Disappointment that these people cannot move on, that they have created a fantasy in which to live.

Disappointment that this is the world he risked his life for, that this is the world he was burned and scarred for. That this is the world Farrier was starved and tortured for.

"They're lost because of what they sacrificed, what was taken from them." Farrier states, unprompted. Collins nods, because there's no disagreeing. They may have been on the frontline, but the war had affected everyone, changed everyone it had touched. Taken and taken and taken until nothing was left and still tried to demand more, prized every last drop of happiness, clawed it out of people's souls and left them broken and bleeding.

Destroyed lives just as it had nations and cities.

"Never knew you to be so philosophical." Collins murmurs, looking down at his hands.

"Never knew you to be so cynical." Farrier counters.

Collins sighs, looking at Farrier and feeling his heart wrench and ache all over again. The fear of him disappearing is potent still and all Collins wants is to sweep him off like Farrier had him, take him to the quiet places that Collins had grown up with, see him in amongst the trees and never ending sky.

See him live.

But for now they're trapped in London, until the RAF are done with them, trying with all their might to hang onto them, and Farrier still awaiting a clean bill of health.

Farrier takes hold of him then, in a move uncharacteristically bold of him given their exposed position, their figures illuminated by a streetlight. But Collins doesn't try to break away, because his gaze is strong and intoxicating and the feel of him even more so. Collins nearly breaks down, then, shaking hands coming to rest on Farrier's forearms, taking a few deep breaths. He breaks Farrier's gaze for a moment, and when he returns to it he releases a strangled noise, the power the man has over him is absolute, and soon words are welling up in his throat.

"I- this place. It's suffocating. The noise," he shakes his head, jaw clenched and eyes clamped shut, willing himself to just get a fucking grip. Farrier never breaks down like this, and on the occasions he does he has the common sense to do it in the privacy and quiet of their room. Collins is like an exposed nerve, the slightest pressure now overwhelming him, his emotions raw and far too much, a heavy burden on his already laden shoulders. "There has to be more, something untouched."

A place not touched by the war, not scarred and damaged like they are, not crumbling into dust like the great streets of London.

Not yet lost like everyone else.

Farrier looks around them, and for an instant pulls him in close, a hug that's equal parts comforting and uncomfortable, all the air crushed from Collins' lungs. It can't last long, and they separate quickly, but stay closer than is advisable.

"When we leave we'll leave this place behind for good. It'll be us and the open sky," Farrier pauses, mostly for effect, but also to watch the words sink in, watch Collins acknowledge the promise, his mind straining to understand fully. "The quiet. I promise you. If I could I'd have taken you there months ago I would have," he pauses again, swallowing around his guilt. Because no matter how many times Collins may tell him it's not his fault - or threaten to shove his cane up his arse if he doesn't shut up - he is what ties Collins to this wretched place, what keeps Collins suffering. "I'll make this right if you'll let me."

Collins gives him a look equal parts sad and happy. But it's the glimmer of hope there that Farrier's eyes catch on, the return of the bright eyed optimism that had took him so off guard all those years ago, made him take notice of this blonde haired Scot with more words than sense and a penchant for fist fights.

"You already have," he says, smile infectious and warm with new hope, new optimism. "You came back."

And, just for once, they catch a break.

Just for once, everything is going to be okay.

Just for once, they win.

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone interested, the play this is inspired by is called Absolute Hell, would recommend. AND, to anyone here from my other big works such as Deliverance. Wow okay I'm sorry it's been way too long but that fic is very much still alive and in the workings. Exams and that have had me incapacitated but soon! I promise! I haven't given up!


End file.
